one flew over holden caulfield
by A.E. McCarley
Summary: I wrote this for and english paper and i hope you all like it, my english teacher sure did. well its about holden ony ten years later and it has a couple twists in it i hope you like.


Disclaimer: i don't own any of the characters or parts of the plot lines, they are the beautiful works of great authors.

please read and review

One Flew Over Holden Caulfield

I sat in the middle section of the theater, because I thought at least I could watch the people during the performance. This was not the first time I had seen this play, but even though I hated it, I knew every word the actors said. I guess the reason I keep on coming is because the story is just so damn well done. Not the details or anything, but I relate to the plot a lot more than most people. It reminds me of my days in the hospital in Hollywood.

The day my brother admitted me to the hospital, I wanted to be there, I mean talk about a free ride. Everyday you can just sit there and piss your pants if you want, no one would even bat an eye. I spent most of my days behind hospital doors, while I was in Hollywood, and the people I met in there were the biggest bunch of phonies I had ever met. Except for one guy named Bobby, but everyone called him Bibbit, because he stuttered damn near all the time, talking with him was like murder. But he always had a damn smile on his face, that killed me, I mean really killed me. We'd play poker for cigarettes and he'd smile even when he lost the pot. Seriously it was like he got a bang out of just playin'. He was the funniest guy in the whole group.

I think my favorite part of spending time in the hospital was when I snuck everyone out to go fishing. I did it purely out of deprivation from sane people, but I brought them along too so it would be more of a field trip than escape. We all got on this bus and I drove us down to the port in Long Beach, rented a fishing boat, and prayed none of the off duty nurses would see us. Going out in the real world was nice, but when I saw Bibbit sitting on a deck chair with his fishing pole, looking like a little kid at Christmas, I got depressed. I mean these guys were actually mentally insane and there was nothing they could do about it. They actually needed the hospital and the nurses, and the medicines they forced down our throats everyday. I just couldn't handle it. I realized that day; I wasn't doing a damn thing sitting in a mental hospital. I wanted, more like needed to help these guys. I needed to show them that the world was worth living outside those stupid walls. I felt it was my job to show them that the world had more to offer than pills at nine in the morning and basket ball until noon.

So from that moment on I began writing, since it was the only thing I was good at. I wrote about everything, from our fishing escapades to the day I found out Chief was neither deaf nor dumb, and the day I escaped from that stupid hospital and out of the head nurse's clutches. I wrote about the electro- shock therapy I survived and how I wished someone would have just smothered me and put me out of my misery. Everything became a lavish story full of crazy ideas based around the men I was rooming with, even Bibbit's death.

That's why I got my brother to sign me out the day Bibbit killed himself. I couldn't handle sitting in that goddamn place anymore with out him, so I left. I went to Colorado to finish the novel I had started while in the hospital. I wrote about playing basket ball until noon, even though I hated it, and finished it with Bibbit's death. The day he slit his throat with a piece of glass. I wrote about how we'd hired a prostitute for the guy the night before, and how the nurse threatened to tell his mom about what happened in the broom closet. The look on his face in horror, the only time I had ever seen him without a smile. I wanted to die right along with him when his body was on the floor, covered in blood, filling the hospital with the sweet smell of wet iron. Boy did that depress me, but I left. I needed to leave, there was no reason for me to stay; my best friend killed himself.

As the curtain fell back down and people began to stand to leave, I saw this young couple in front of me.

"Hey what was the name of the play again," the girl asked.

"One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest...?"

"Who was it written by again?"

"Ken Kessey...Why?"

"Because I think the writer went to school with my older brother. I think he said they were roommates," she stated looking at the people leaving.

"Really, which brother?" He asked interested.

"Ward, they used to just call him Caulfield in school, I think he said the last time he had seen the guy, they got in a fight or something over a girl"

"Oh well that's cool," then I smirked to myself as they walk off. I followed in suite with everyone else until we all got to the lobby. I stood there because I was waiting for someone. When I saw her my whole face lit up, I could feel it. She was wearing a long skirt and one of those pill box hats, very sophisticated. She walked up and stood in front of me.

"Why hello Ms. Gallagher..." I said trying to be suave.

"Hello Mr. Caulfield, or should I say Mr. Kessey," She replied grabbing my hand.

"Holden if it's alright?"

"That's just fine," she said. We started walking out of the theater hand in hand, as it always should have been.


End file.
